


Get Lucky

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [11]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simple porny slice-of-life fic - Friday night - food, beer, Risan weed and sex, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Zauzat

Phil’s cooking; Chris can even identify _what_ he’s cooking although it’s been well over two years since he’s had the pleasure of Phil’s Malaysian curry with green beans. The smells of cinnamon and star anise and lemongrass, with just the faintest hints of ginger and coconut, permeate the entire apartment as Chris shuts the front door behind him and he feels that small part of himself that’s been off-kilter for the last month or so shift slightly and settle more comfortably in his chest.

They’ve been trying valiantly to settle back into their life together since Phil returned from his time on the _USS Henry Blake_ , but Starfleet has been less than helpful. After a thoroughly enjoyable reunion that conveniently coincided with the last week of summer break for Chris, they’ve spent the last four weeks juggling Field Camp, bad shifts and an in-system medical emergency that sent Phil to Mars for five days. This will be the first weekend with neither of them on call or out of the city and Chris has every intention of making the most of it. He knows that given the chance they’ll spend a substantial part of the time in bed, or at least stretched out on the couch wrapped around each other, renewing a relationship that for the last two years has been made up of vid-comms and voice recordings and encounters that were too brief and too infrequent and far too frenetic.

They desperately need this time to reconnect and It’s not like this little slice of paradise is going to last indefinitely. Phil’s term as Starfleet Medical’s Chief of Trauma is only for three months, filling in while the current Chief recuperates from injuries sustained when the force-shield failed on his motorcycle right as he was taking a fast curve on the 101, and Chris is a little nervous about exactly where ‘Fleet will decide Phil’s needed next.

It takes him a moment to recognize the soft, sultry music on the sound system as the Andorian blues band he’s been listening to of late and it makes Chris smile and relax a little more as he throws his duffel in the general direction of the bedroom. He’s stretching and shaking the tension out of his shoulders as the scrabble of claws on the hardwood floor heralds the appearance of forty kilos of tail-wagging black Labrador and just in time he drops down to one knee and lets Jericho demonstrate his own special brand of unconditional affection.

“Hey boy, I missed you too.” The dog smells faintly of sand and sea and it warms Chris through to think that Phil cared enough to take Jericho all the way out to the beach at some god-awful early hour this morning before his 08:00 shift at the Trauma Center. Jericho is very much Chris’ dog, the offspring of a stray that fetched up hungry and pregnant at the ranch eighteen months before. It hadn’t taken much for Alice Hudson Pike to persuade her obviously lonely son to take on one of the pups – with the promise that she’d look after him when the time came for Chris to ship out again. The company had been a godsend after the news had come that Phil would be staying on the _Henry Blake_ for a second 12-month tour and, while he hadn’t thought that Phil would object to the presence of the dog in their lives, he’s more than gratified at the obvious affection that he’s demonstrated toward Jericho, even making the effort to bring him down to Field Camp for a week. It takes a couple of minutes for the licking and tail-wagging to die down and with a last brisk rub between the lab’s ears, Chris levers himself back up off the floor and heads to the kitchen.

“Hmm, that smells fantastic.” Chris knows that the blues piano playing on the sound system has drowned out the sound of his entry and he strokes a hand gently across Phil’s shoulder, careful not to startle him, and leans in to kiss the back of his neck. He’s rewarded with a low rumble of a laugh.

“Yeah, thought you’d appreciate a treat after dealing with mess food for two weeks.” Phil drops the spoon into the curry and turns his head just far enough to kiss the corner of Chris’ mouth. “Mmm…you smell like a shuttle jump seat – you piloted that damn thing back yourself, didn’t you?”

“Damn right I did. I don’t get nearly enough flight time right now, I’ll take all I can get.” Chris lays a series of soft kisses along the skin of Phil’s neck, just above the collar of his t-shirt, and then while Phil’s distracted he steals a corner from a piece of naan and swipes it through the sauce that is simmering gently on the cooking surface. Despite his niggling unease about where Phil’s going to get posted next, Chris is more relaxed than he’s been in a long time, enough to tease and push his luck just a little, and he sneaks a little more naan and has to dodge smartly out of the way as Phil licks his wooden spoon clean and threatens him with it.

“Hands off the food. Thrilled as I am to have you home, can you just fuck off and have a run or a shower or something until dinner is ready?” Phil drops the spoon back in the saucier and tugs Chris close for a kiss that’s long enough and sweet enough to take the sting out of his slightly acerbic comment and Chris leans into it, molding his entire length up against Phil’s side. The heavy fabric of the academy grays makes the sensation a little less intense than he might like, but he still feels the stir of arousal at the press of Phil’s lean, firm warmth against his body.

“Hmmm…sure, I’ll take Jericho out, just in case we’re too tired later. “ He grins, all wicked promise and infectious enthusiasm, and Phil laughs in return.

“What? You think you’re gonna get lucky tonight?”

“No.” Chris leans in and whispers against Phil’s ear in his best fuck-me voice, “I think _you’re_ gonna get lucky tonight.”

****

It’s chilly for late September and Chris cuts his run short, coming back into the apartment half an hour later with an exhausted dog and a six-pack of Kingfisher and finds Phil just turning the heat down on the rice. He slides the beer into the cooler and goes to fill Jericho’s water bowl, the dog nudging him in the back of the knees as he walks across the kitchen, and Phil makes an appreciative noise at the appearance of the beer.

“Hmm beer, good thinking, I knew I’d forgotten something.”

Chris just laughs, sets the water bowl back down in its assigned corner and comes up close behind Phil, his voice a quiet tease.

“Forgetting things at your age – there’s a surprise.”

“Ass.”

“Hmm…your ass.” at the same moment apparently, they both realize what Chris has just said and Phil raises his eyebrow and grins, his voice slow and amused as he drawls, “Well…hell, _yeah_.”

With a roll of his eyes Chris snatches up the small corner of naan that’s left and deftly scoops up sauce, two green beans and a chunk of tofu before heading for the door, his announcement that he’s going for a shower lost in his appreciative moan as the extraordinarily complex flavor of the curry hits his taste buds.

“Fuck that’s good…”

“I know…now go shower, it’ll be on the table when you get out.”

Chris reappears fifteen minutes later wearing the incongruous combination of a faded gray Academy t-shirt that is probably older than anyone in the current intake of cadets and the incredibly expensive dark blue silk sleep pants that Phil brought back from _New Pacifica_ on his only Earthside furlough from the _Henry Blake_. They fit him beautifully, hanging low on his hips and clinging to the curve of his ass, and he loves the way they feel against his skin. Better than all of that though is the way the sight of him in them makes Phil’s eyes narrow and his mouth curve in that slow sweet I-want-to-fuck-you smile that is all heat and languid seduction.

“You are such a sexy bastard.”

The food is laid out on the dining room table, the beers decanted out of the bottles and into glasses for a change, and Phil is leaning back in his chair, hands linked behind his head as he watches Chris walk across the room.

“Missed you too.” Chris grins and leans down into a lazy, familiar kiss that’s more soothing than arousing until Phil slides his tongue along Chris’ bottom lip, sucks the soft flesh into his mouth and Chris moans quietly at the _hotwetslick_ feel. It takes him a while to extricate himself and by the time he does he’s more than half hard; shivering as Phil drags the back of his fingers lightly up the silk-draped length, and not entirely convinced that dinner should take priority over sex.

“Hmm…you wanna skip dinner?” There’s a hitch in his voice that Chris knows is betraying just a little more need than he’s entirely comfortable with and Phil just grins and pulls his hand back.

“No.”

Chris is a little surprised at Phil’s emphatic tone until he realizes that after spending most of the early evening getting this meal prepped Phil probably has no real desire to put it under a stasis field for an hour or two. Then the vehemence just makes him laugh.

“Okay, should I be worried that you want food before my body?” Chris settles himself at the table and stretches out one leg until he can rub his bare foot up Phil’s calf, over his knee and up the inside of his thigh to his groin, grinning as the teasing pressure makes Phil squirm a little and back up out of range.

“Quit teasing – like I said one night a long time ago – food before fucking.”

For a moment Chris is worried that he’s somehow managed to do something to piss Phil off but there’s nothing except teasing affection in Phil’s tone as he reaches over the table and rubs his fingers across the back of Chris’ hand. “I bet you’ve been subsisting on coffee since breakfast, haven’t you?”

Chris winces, not really wanting to admit it, but Phil knows him and his general aversion to mess food entirely too well. “Like you said, mess food is shit, especially at Field Camp.”

“Thought so - sit, eat and tell me about your week.”

Dinner is long and relaxed as they catch up and enjoy a real conversation rather than the brief and, given the unsecured nature of most comm channels, rather guarded exchanges they’ve been engaged in for the last week. Finally Chris pushes himself back from the table and tilts his head, bringing the conversation back to something they’d talked about earlier in the week.

“Did you clear McCoy’s shifts for the next couple of days?”

“Yeah, I checked with him first but he seemed to agree that being on hand to supervise James T. Kirk decompressing from two weeks at Field Camp might be wise.”

“Hmmm, ‘s good, I might have to kill Jim if I need to bail him out this weekend. And that would be a hell of a shame, because he just pulled off both leadership and meritorious conduct commendations.”

The look Phil gives him, incredulity edged with an obvious concern for his sanity, makes Chris laugh out loud.

“What?”

“Meritorious conduct? You’re shitting me.”

“No really – he was a fucking angel the entire time – brilliant, focused, competent – didn’t back talk a single instructor – if I hadn’t overheard him trying to persuade two Orion cadets into his bed one night I’d have thought he’d been switched by gypsies.” Chris can’t quite believe it himself, he’d gone out on a very long limb to get Jim into the Academy – there were always far more applicants than available places and jail time, even for relatively minor, if oft repeated, offenses, was one of the first ways to screen the applicant pool. Chris had only persuaded the admissions board to overlook Jim’s colorful arrest record by promising to oversee his progress personally and while it had been a bit of a challenge so far, Jim was finally beginning to realize some of the extraordinary potential that Chris had glimpsed under the blood and bruises in that Iowa bar. He wonders sometimes if this slowly developing maturity is down to the influence of the grumpy, hyper-competent doctor from Georgia, his constant, stable presence fulfilling Kirk’s obvious need to be valued for himself and not just as the younger son of a dead legend.

“Must be feeling good about him.”

“No shit, so it really _would_ be a shame if I have to kill him for doing something stupid while he’s celebrating.”

“So long as that something stupid doesn’t involve us getting called out of bed in the middle of the night, he can do whatever the hell he likes.” Phil pushes himself back from the table and drains the last of his beer, before leaning over to kiss the top of Chris’ head.

“You think he and McCoy have a thing?”

“Dunno, they spend enough time together.” Chris thinks for a moment and considers what he knows about the two, rather extraordinary, cadets before he goes on, “Maybe fuck-buddies, but McCoy doesn't strike me as the type to let a serious partner fuck around like Kirk does.”

“You’re probably right.” Phil stacks the plates and takes the empty beer glass from Chris. “We done here?”

“Yep, I’ll clean up – you can go have a shower.”

“Sounds good, I’ll meet you in bed.”

****

“What are we celebrating?” Chris takes in the sight of Phil sitting cross-legged on the bed, a towel spread in front of him to catch anything that spills from the rolling paper that is expertly balanced between his fingers, and grins at the ample supply of dried sage green vegetation in the saucer by Phil’s knee. Risan weed is not illegal as such, but it’s generally only available through medical channels and judging by the high ratio of buds to leaves in this stash, this is _very_ high quality medical grade.

“We’re in the same place, with any luck we’ve got a whole weekend ahead with no interruptions and we’ll be sleeping in the same bed for the foreseeable future - it’s been a long time since we’ve had that.” Phil spreads a scatter of conventional tobacco into the paper to cut the potency of the weed just a little and after a quick redistribution of the contents, licks the edge and rolls the last, rather fat, joint and waves it at Chris before he lays it on the end table beside the three others.

“These are to last all weekend, this stuff’s a little more intoxicating than usual.” Phil wets a finger and uses it to mop up the few stray bits of greenery that are left on the towel, rubbing them off onto the saucer, and Chris can feel his appreciative gaze as he peels off his t-shirt, his voice a little muffled as he responds.

“I noticed, don’t worry, I have no desire to pass out on you.”

It only takes Phil a moment to slide the remaining contents of the saucer into a breathable polymer storage sack and stow it in the end table and then he leans back against the pillows and grins at Chris. “C’mere…” He splays his legs and pats the mattress between them. “…just lean back and relax.”

“I can do that.”

“Damn right you can.”

Chris wriggles a little to get comfortable and then leans back with his head on Phil’s shoulder and lets his weight rest on the broad frame behind him, relaxing at the feel of long lean muscles and warm skin covered with hair that is alternately wiry or silky depending on exactly which direction he wriggles in. After he’s comfortable he tucks his face into the curve of Phil’s neck and makes a soft rumbling sound as a strong hand is stroked gently through his hair.

“We’re planning to take this slow, right?” Phil’s voice is a warm, husky whisper against Chris’ ear, and it sends little sparks down his spine, tiny flares of electricity that make him shiver, his cock beginning to fill, twitching and brushing against the cool silk of his pants.

“Mmm, really slow, I want to enjoy taking my time – I want us to last all night if we can.” He shifts his weight and trails his mouth delicately along the curve of Phil’s jaw, fifteen hours of stubble rasping across his lips in a sweet, soft burn. “Mmm…s’nice. Think you can not shave for the rest of the weekend? I’ll be really, really grateful.”

“How grateful?”

“On-my-knees kind of grateful.” Chris has moved on to sucking at the soft skin of Phil’s throat, making him squirm a little, but the disingenuousness of his offer just makes Phil laugh. “Like it’s a challenge to get you on your knees.”

“Hey – I’m offering to blow you here, you might at least pretend to be interested.” His slightly indignant declaration is completely undercut by his tone, which is lazy and content and underlain by a half-laugh that could almost be a giggle, if Chris Pike giggled, which he most certainly doesn’t.

“Oh I’m interested, I’m always interested, I just think you can do _grateful_ better than that.”

“Asshole.”

“Totally.” And then Phil relents as Chris reaches up to trace his fingers across the rough burn of his cheek. “Okay, no shaving this weekend.” He grabs Chris’ fingers and nips at them, brushing them across his moustache before he goes on, his voice amused and fond. “You have such a hard-on for stubble.”

“Only yours.”

“Damn straight.” Phil laughs and his fingers stroke a teasing line up the center of Chris’ chest, tugging gently on the thick soft curls for a moment before Chris feels him reach to the side. A moment later he hears the snick of a lighter and feels the shift in Phil’s chest as he inhales slowly. He’s taken by surprise when, instead of handing him the joint, Phil wraps a hand around Chris’ chin and turns his head, bringing his mouth in range for a kiss. Realizing what Phil has planned, Chris closes the distance himself and seals his mouth over Phil’s, inhaling at just the right moment to take in the exhaled smoke from Phil’s lungs. It’s an incredibly intimate act, absorbing the same volume of air that has just been deep within Phil, and it makes Chris relax a little more against the muscled heat at his back.

It takes little more than a minute or two for the slow, sweet heat of the drug to start filtering out along his nerves. The body buzz from Risan weed is famous; it’s one reason it’s so popular for medicinal uses – the combination of muscle relaxant and low grade, soothing euphoria makes it a perfect panacea for patients with a whole host of chronic conditions. It’s even more popular, if harder to obtain, for recreational purposes and Chris chalks up another mark in the plus column of being in a relationship with a physician.

They share another couple of lungfulls of air before Phil finally hands over the seriously diminished joint, barely more than a roach, for Chris to finish and reaches out to light the smallest of the trio still lying on the nightstand.

“Only one more or I’ll pass out before things get interesting.”

Chris waits until he hears the sound of the lighter being set down and then reaches back for Phil’s free hand, curling their fingers together and bringing their joined hands to rest on his chest.

“No reason to wait.” And he sets up a slow rhythm, rubbing their joined hands up and down the center of his chest, sliding a little lower on each pass until Phil gets the message and takes up the rhythm, uncurling his fingers to scratch lightly at the firm ridges of muscle across Chris’ belly.

“Fuck, you’re fit. What’ve you been doing while I was gone?” Phil’s voice is a lazy whisper against Chris’ ear, and for a moment Chris pauses, aware that if he says what’s on the tip of his tongue it’s going to start a conversation that could derail their plans for sex pretty quickly. But he can’t quite stop himself, and isn’t sure if he wants to.

“Finding ways not to go fucking crazy because I wasn’t getting laid.” That’s the glib version of what he really wants to say, and yet doesn’t – that he was going crazy because he missed Phil’s solid comforting presence in his life, in his bed, in all the little unexpected corners of his day – missed being grounded by that pragmatic sarcasm and gently acerbic wit – hell, he’d even missed waking to the sound of Phil grousing into the comm after a middle-of-the-night emergency call out.

There’s a pause and a sigh. “I’m sorry, I never meant to be gone that long.”

“I know, it’s not your fault Phil, I’m not blaming you. It was what it was, and it sucked and if I hadn’t found a way to cope the cadets would’ve hated me even more than they do already.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“Oh yes they do. Not as much as they hate Kureshi or Ra’al, but they’re boring fuckers – they hate me ‘cause I’m mean…” Chris has finished the roach from the first joint and is beginning to slur just a fraction. “…or at least I have been the last few years.” He knows he sounds just a little despondent and he hates the thread of vulnerable pain in his voice, but the weed is beginning to shred his inhibitions and he can tell he’s about to spill things that he wouldn’t normally. In a sudden moment of clarity he realizes that this is exactly what Phil had planned and he groans and leans back against Phil’s shoulder. “You are such a devious fucker.”

Apparently Phil knows exactly what he’s talking about and just laughs softly and wraps one arm tight around Chris’ chest, leaning in to whisper, “I prefer resourceful. I know there’s something bugging you, and this is the only way you’re going to talk about it.”

Chris knows he’s right, these kinds of conversations have always been a challenge for them, and he’s a master at deflecting any attempts at meaningful dialogue when he wants to. It’s not one of his more attractive qualities and he’s secretly a little grateful that Phil has found a way to work around it that avoids outright confrontation. It seems only fair to meet him half way and Chris blows out a hard breath and leans his head back on Phil’s shoulder, pausing for a moment as he thinks about exactly what he wants to say.

“It’s okay, it’s not a big deal, I’m just worried…” His voice trails off, as he can’t quite force himself to admit what’s worrying him. Damn he hates this. He hates being vulnerable; hates _showing_ that vulnerability, even to Phil who has seen every conceivable weakness in him over the last quarter of a century. Has held him shivering in the aftermath of terrifying nightmares, and grief-stricken in the wake of heart-breaking crew losses. But it’s hard to admit just how much he needs Phil as a real and constant presence in his life, to realize that he’s not entirely sure how he would deal with another two years of separation if Phil were given another deep-space assignment.

Chris can feel Phil waiting patiently, the whisper of his breath stirring the curls at his forehead and he sighs, steeling himself to go on. “I’m worried that ‘Fleet’s going to send you out in the black again.”

“I think that _is_ a pretty big deal.” Phil rubs his cheek against Chris’ temple and then drops his voice to a whisper. “And I may have some news on that front.”

Chris feels his stomach drop. “Where are they sending you?” He sighs as Phil wraps him a little tighter, not sure if he really wants to know yet, not tonight – annoyed at his own, almost childish, disappointment that whatever Phil’s about to tell him might leave their weekend in ashes.

“Not sending me anywhere.” Phil brushes his mouth gently over Chris’ temple as the fingers of one hand continue to trace delicate patterns on the firm abdomen. “I talked to Ní’hUallacháin this week – she’s going to offer McLean the Chief Administrator position for the Mars facility once he’s back on staff. If he accepts, which she’s pretty sure he will, then Chief of Trauma is mine until the Enterprise launches – I don’t have to worry about being sent away again.”

Chris lets out a quiet, almost breathless sound of relief and turns his head to hide his face against Phil’s neck for a moment and if his voice is a little rough when he finally speaks, well that’s the weed betraying him again.

“So I’m stuck with you, then?”

“You are, darling boy, you are. But you know what? I think I can make it up to you.” Chris can hear the gentle humor in Phil’s voice and he stretches, cat-like, as Phil slides his hand a little lower, tugging gently at the thickening line of hair that trails down below Chris navel and disappears into the dark blue silk. Each gentle tug sends a spark along an invisible cord that connects Chris heart and his cock and he shivers and turns his head into the curve of Phil’s neck, letting his mouth play along the jawline again – seduced by the delicious roughness that he loves so much. Another centimeter lower and Phil’s fingers are sliding under the silk, tracing patterns on sensitive skin, combing through wiry curls until they finally curl around the pliant heat of his cock.

“Hmmm…that’s what I’m looking for – you’re a little more relaxed than usual tonight.”

That makes Chris laugh and stretch, lifting his hips slightly to mould himself against Phil’s hand which is working in a gentle squeeze around the slowly - very slowly - firming length.

“You were the one who offered up the muscle relaxant.”

“ _That’s_ not a muscle.”

Chris can feel Phil’s grin against the back of his neck and he doesn’t bother with a verbal response, he knows his higher cognitive functions are fading rapidly, but he’s relaxed and happy and doesn’t really care that he can’t win this particular argument, so he just reaches back and steals the joint. By the time he has it smoked down to the roach he’s hard under Phil’s hand and he could very easily just lie here and let Phil bring him off in long, slow strokes – the firm caress of a callused thumb making him groan each time it brushes over the silk-smooth head of his cock. But that isn’t really what Chris wants, to be passive under Phil’s touch, to let him take the initiative and work him to a slow, lazy climax, and with a supreme effort of will he shakes off the lethargy and slides out of Phil’s embrace, rolling so that he can rest his head on a warm thigh and grin up at Phil’s slightly bemused face.

“You’re pretty wasted, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and _you’re_ just sharp as a fuckin’ tack.” Phil runs a hand through Chris’ hair. “So, you got enough functioning brain cells to make yourself useful while you’re down there?”

“I don’t need brain cells for that – I could blow you in my sleep.” Now that he’s moved a little of the weed-induced torpor has faded and Chris leans in to nuzzle the half-hard length of Phil’s erection before bestowing a long, hot, wet, open kiss on the velvet-soft flesh and then, with no further encouragement, he takes the whole, rapidly firming, length into his mouth.

God he loves this, the taste and feel and smell of Phil here, at his core where he’s all musk and heat – the feel of silky skin over firm flesh, hot and velvety under his tongue, twitching as he flicks that pliant, soft spot just under the corona. He could do this for hours, and given the slow burn of the Risan weed, he might just be able to tonight – might just be able to make both of them last that long, his own arousal banked like coals at the base of a late night fire. Another flick of his tongue and Chris pulls back to grin slightly at the sound Phil makes, a low filthy growl that’s all wanton need and absolutely no control, and realizes that however long their conscious selves might want to make this last, Phil’s body has an agenda all it’s own. A long, slow, shiver of desire traces down his spine at the sight of Phil stretching out to wrap his hands around the bars of the headboard, arching instinctively off the bed, and there is something so gorgeously uninhibited about him that Chris lets a slow growl of his own rumble up from the depths of his chest.

“Do it, Chris, just fucking _do_ it.” It sounds like Phil is trying to command, trying to use that voice that he uses on Chris only here, in bed. But Chris isn’t playing that game tonight and he just leans in to brush his lips lightly across the sweat-damp skin of Phil’s hip and then, as Phil bucks against him, he wraps a strong forearm across the lightly furred abdomen and grins like a shark, all feral promise and contained power.

“Uh-uh, you’re mine tonight, don’t even think about trying to take control.”

There’s a moment of silence as they stare each other down, both breathing hard, conscious that this is a game that neither of them can lose and if Chris is normally the one to back down, always aware of the physical edge that makes his submission entirely voluntary, there’s an extra little thrill when they change it up. Phil grins, his fingers tightening around the spars of the headboard as he drops his head back onto the pillows.

“I’m all yours - do your worst.”

With his mouth poised to engulf Phil’s cock, tongue flicking across the weeping slit in an erratic tease that makes Phil twitch with every touch, Chris pauses for a moment and licks his bottom lip.

“Worst might not be the word you’re looking for.”

“Smartass…”

Chris doesn’t bother with a response, leaning in to seal his mouth around the hot, thick length and suck his way to the root until his nose brushes up against thick curls that are surprisingly soft and silky against his skin. He keeps up the slow, lazy suction until Phil is bucking and twisting underneath him – growling his demands for more, faster, _now_.

It takes only a moment to reach over and find the lube in the nightstand and then Chris is coating his fingers, using his free hand to push one lightly furred thigh up out of the way as he slides the other under Phil’s balls, searching out the tightly furled pucker.

Phil’s hand smacks down hard on Chris’ wrist and Chris pushes himself up off the mattress in surprise. “What?”

“Don’t.” Phil’s voice breaks slightly on the word and there’s a momentary pause before he goes on. “Just fuck me open – please - you know how much I love that.”

“Oh fuck, yes I do – but you don’t ever say it.”

“After twenty five years you need to hear it?”

“I don’t _need_ to hear it – I _like_ to hear it – I love it when you tell me what you want.” Chris is poised over Phil now, one hand resting on the mattress, bearing most of his weight, the other curved around Phil’s balls, slick index finger still playing lightly across his perineum. He can feel the warm euphoria of the weed mixed now with the rapidly spiraling heat of arousal and as he holds Phil’s gaze he realizes that he’s not the only one affected by the narcotic. Phil’s eyes are wide, bluer than usual - where arousal would have blown the pupils, the muscle relaxant has shrunk them slightly - and he’s breathing hard and sheened with sweat.

“That’s what I want – just do it, please Chris, _please_.”

“Oh yeah….”

With a wicked grin Chris shifts Phil’s legs over his hips and gives his own cock a couple of fast, hard strokes to make sure he’s thoroughly slicked and as hard as possible before he presses the head against Phil’s slightly twitching entrance. There’s a long pause as Chris leans in and then he gasps as Phil relaxes, the ring of muscle yielding to the insistent pressure and Chris sinks in deep and fast.

“Oh fuck…” Phil arches hard off the bed and Chris goes still.

“You okay?”

“Mmmm yeah, it’s just been a while – and you’re not small.” Phil exhales slowly and wraps his legs a little tighter around Chris’ waist, puling him in deeper, resting one hand flat on Chris’ chest, right over his rapidly beating heart as he grins and goes on, his voice a low, dirty whisper. “Now, fuck me like you mean it.”

For all the implication of _hard and fast_ in Phil’s command, the rhythm they end up in is slow and easy, almost as if they are deliberately defying the urgency that has infused every encounter over the last two years and if Chris would normally drop his head after a while and retreat into his own pleasure, tonight he holds Phil’s gaze for every second that they are fused together and he’s rewarded with the rarest of gifts - a whispered recitation of love and tenderness and achingly soulful promises.

“Christ, I love you…I’ve missed you so fucking much…being away from you like that nearly killed me…I think I might have fucking resigned if they’d tried to send me away again…”

That makes Chris shudder and hitch his hips a little harder. “Oh Jesus, I might even have let you.” He bites his lip against the sudden wash of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him and then breathes out hard as Phil bears down and the thread of his control snaps. It’s nearly unbearable, the need to fuck hard and fast and with total abandon – to drive himself into the exquisite velvet heat over and over again until they are both panting and groaning and slick with sweat. And when the wave finally crests and they are still focused entirely on each other it takes only seconds for one orgasm to trigger the other, Phil falling first, arching, his body clenched tight around Chris’.

The gentle touch of fingers carding through his hair brings Chris back to some kind of awareness countless minutes later and he stretches, skin sweat-slick and warm against Phil’s body, content to sink into a peaceful combination of post-coital lassitude, narcotic haze and emotional relief. He’s very close to sleep when a single thought works its way up from his sub-conscious and he feels Phil’s surprise as he pushes himself up on one elbow and curves his free hand around Phil's cheek, stirring him out of sleepy comfort.

“You weren’t serious about resigning were you?’

There’s a long pause before Phil slowly opens one eye and answers, just the slightest edge of embarrassment in his voice. “Well, I’d thought about it – but in the long run it would have been pretty damn stupid.”

“You think? It’d be a little hard to be CMO on the _Enterprise_ if you resigned from the Fleet.” Chris drops his head to Phil’s chest once more and a quiet chuckle vibrates under his cheek as he slides his hand down a strong forearm until he can twine his fingers into Phil’s.

The silence stretches for a long moment and then Phil's voice, quiet and amused, punctures the darkness “So much for lasting all night.”

And then they are both laughing softly, wrapping around each other as they settle in to sleep and Chris can't help himself from having the last word as he whispers, "I'll wake you in an hour or two and we can start again."


End file.
